


I plead guilty, your honor.

by lithalos



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans akira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithalos/pseuds/lithalos
Summary: This thief had the unfortunate habit of stealing his mask and inviting the real Akechi to dance.





	I plead guilty, your honor.

**Author's Note:**

> this was self-indulgent but what else is new
> 
> [also there is implied transphobia but it is by in no part the extreme focus of the fic. it's not explicit.]
> 
> (unbeta'd and livin la vida loca)

It was a confusing batch of half-baked reasons that had Akechi wandering into Leblanc late in the night, too close to closing time to really be considered polite. Most notable was the dull ache of caffeine withdrawal drowning out rational thought and the daunting mountain of unsolved cases weighing down his briefcase. True, he could have thrown together a cup or two (or many) of some instant swill he kept exceptionally well stocked in his apartment to a similar effect. The delivery method should have been inconsequential—good coffee or bad, he’d still get his fix. Yet, the mere thought of drinking even _one_ _more drop_ of that sludge had him wrinkling his face in disgust. He’d rather drive a needle full of caffeine through his heart than downing that travesty any time in the near future.

Akechi pointedly refused to let himself admit he was  _ also _ hoping to see a mop-top bespeckled barista behind the counter. It was purely for the coffee. That's what he’d keep telling himself until the end of his days. That’s what he told himself as his heart soared spotting the telltale black curls behind the counter.

Coffee.  _ Just _ the coffee.

Kurusu didn’t look up from wiping down the counter. Didn’t seem to respond to the store bell dinging at all, really. He simply continued slowly scrubbing one small section of the counter without a word. Not something that was particularly out of character for someone who acted like he was paying for each word he spoke, no. Even the impassive, blank and empty expression he wore wasn’t  _ entirely  _ abnormal—Akechi was absolutely positive Kurusu could easily sweep any game of poker he played. So truthfully, Akechi wasn’t entirely sure why concern was pooling in his chest, or why he felt a twinge of apprehension as he approached the counter.

Well, perhaps the drops of water on the inside of Kurusu’s glasses, on the counter he was so absently scrubbing, were a good indication.

“...Kurusu?” He ventured gently, softly, dropping his briefcase to the ground. When Kurusu refused to look up, Akechi leaned ever so slightly over the counter with a frown. This wasn’t like him at all; by now, Kurusu would have cracked a small smile, made a bad joke, offered to make the usual before sliding into routine with practiced grace.

It was unsettling when Kurusu’s mask slipped so abruptly, and so, so rare.

“The usual?” Kurusu finally croaked out, voice thick and raspy as he tried to straighten slumped shoulders. It was a poor imitation of himself; steely grey eyes that were always confident, unwavering, were downcast and misty. His casual posture was simply defeated, only made more pronounced as Kurusu half-heartedly tried to right it.

There was only one person Akechi would consider his equal in donning the mask the world wanted to see. Seeing Kurusu’s so in tatters nearly broke his heart, against his better judgement. “Kurusu, what’s wrong?”

Grey eyes drifted around the floor, the café, but never settled on him. “Nothing.” Hoarse and half-assed, Kurusu continued to parade around with a broken mask.

It  _ infuriated _ Akechi. “Do  _ not _ lie to me.” He did his best to keep his tone firm, not angry, as Akechi leaned further over the counter. Shifting until he was directly within Kurusu’s line of sight, he all but challenged the thief to look away. “Something’s wrong. I’m not a fool—you can  _ not _ lie to me and tell me otherwise.”

The first flicker of emotion crossed Kurusu’s face, and the inscrutable cracked mask shattered abruptly into outright sobbing. To say Akechi was startled when Kurusu collapsed onto the counter and began just  _ crying _ would be a hilarious understatement.

To say Akechi was out of his element would  _ also  _ be an understatement. Rarely had he an opportunity to console  _ anyone _ , leaving him uncomfortably ignorant and unsure of what to do. For a moment, he stood in cold unmoving shock, watching helplessly as Kurusu’s shoulders heaved with quiet, burdened weeping.

As soon as he’d gathered his bearings, however, Akechi whispered his silent apologies to Sojiro for the intrusion before sliding behind the counter beside Kurusu. Gently, and excessively awkward, he rested his hand on Kurusu’s shuddering back.

Kurusu seemed to flinch—or perhaps he was still just crying—but didn't pull away. Taking this as the best positive response he was going to get, Akechi slowly began rubbing in small circles with his thumb.

Distant, foggy memories of warm, gentle hugs tugged at him. Blurry and out of focus, nearly unintelligible but eerily familiar. Memories he had once clung to so desperately, only to discard at a moment's notice in a fit of prolonged rage. Memories of thin, shaky hands doing the same as he was now, of the soft crooning of comforting, empty words. Of lacking, hollow smiles that easily faded.

Akechi wouldn't be that. He'd not offer Kurusu a false sense of comfort; he would simply be here, remain by his side as long as was needed.

Truthfully, it didn't take long for Kurusu’s weeping to peter out into breathless, squeaky hiccuping. When the thief finally lifted his head from the counter, eyes puffy and face splotchy, red, and thoroughly soaked through with tears, Akechi offered a small smile. Kurusu didn't return it—Akechi hadn't expected him to, honestly. The exhaustion settling into his face was enough of an indication that Kurusu had no intentions of putting on airs. At least that empty look in his eyes had faded, replaced with a tired sadness. Still pitiful, but not quite as worrisome.

Akechi wrinkled his nose a bit before grabbing a towel from under the counter. One  _ not _ covered in coffee, he hoped. “You really made a mess of yourself, Kurusu,” the detective hummed out as he began wiping at Kurusu’s face.

It took a moment of slow, clunky processing for Kurusu to reply, voice scratchy and dull. “Sorry,” he rasped out as he avoided eye contact.

Akechi shook his head lazily, removing the thief’s glasses and resuming cleaning him up. “Don't be. As I said before, clearly something’s wrong.” With a contented huff at the thief’s marginally cleaner face, Akechi tossed the rag to the counter. Kurusu nervously glanced up, self-consciously making hesitant eye contact with the detective. “I would prefer if you were honest with me, but I won't force you to talk if you don't wish to.”

For a brief moment, Kurusu looked as if he was going to decline, brows furrowed and teeth gnawing on his lower lip. Then, languid and soft: “Let me close up shop first, then we can talk.”

Akechi smiled. “Of course.

* * *

Fortunately, going through the motions seemed to be therapeutic for Kurusu, as when the two made their way up to the attic, a little life had returned to his face. For the best, in Akechi’s opinion. Tears didn't suit him.

“So…” The detective began, standing awkwardly in the middle of the dingy attic until Kurusu patted the space on his bed next to him. Not needing to be told twice, Akechi sat beside the thief and continued. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurusu offered him a wry smile. “I hardly think you came here to play therapist, Akechi.”

Akechi choked back the instinctual flare of anger at the deflection; there was a hint of something else in Kurusu’s eyes that kept it from truly pissing him off. Guilt, maybe? “Why I came is irrelevant,” he sighed. In the face of Kurusu’s breakdown, a coffee fueled migraine seemed entirely insignificant. “So stop trying to dodge the question.”

“Interrogating me, detective?” The joke was flat, Akechi’s stare even moreso; Kurusu glanced away sheepishly. “Sorry, I just… don't know how to talk about it, I guess. I don't normally, er… cry in front of people.” His words were either rushed or painstakingly mulled over, grey eyes fixing themselves straight to the floor.

Something in Akechi’s heart twinged at those words. Surrounded by so many he considered friends, Kurusu still never showed weakness around anyone. A solitary island, never calling for help or leaning on anyone. Lonely, Akechi thinks. Surrounded by friends and still so sorely alone.

A feeling he was all too familiar with. “Let's start with what happened.”

When a dead silence fell between them, Akechi briefly worried Kurusu wouldn't respond at all. Though, the thief appeared to be considering his words carefully as he absently clawed at the tops of his hands. Finally,  _ finally, _ he spoke. “Nothing really happened, I guess.” A brief, contemplative pause, then: “Nothing major, anyways. It was more… A lot of little things building up.”

That was a start, at least. “Like?”

Kurusu huffed in frustration before flopping backwards onto his bed and throwing an arm over his eyes. Akechi shifted closer to the middle of the bed to watch the thief without craning his neck for the next eternity. “I don't know! It's mostly stupid stuff. I've got the biggest damn migraine that I can’t kick, Sojiro was pissed he had to help me with my shot because I'm too much of a fucking wuss to do it myself, every teacher in existence has been on my  _ ass, _ and—” After that seemingly unending torrent of words, Kurusu cut himself abruptly short with a nearly imperceptible hitch in his voice. “Never mind. Like I said, it's stupid stuff.”

Genuine surprise wasn't something Akechi felt often, yet here he was absolutely dumbfounded by the fluid rant he’d heard spill from Kurusu’s lips. Truly, this may be the  _ most _ Kurusu had said to him at one time—he found himself wishing wistfully it had been under different circumstances. “Even the most inane things can feel important if you bottle them up,” and pot, meet kettle. “I don't imagine you've talked to anyone else about this?”

The grimace on Kurusu’s buried face would have been a sufficient answer. “Didn't plan on talking to anyone about it, either. It's not important enough—”

“Kurusu, you were in  _ tears, _ ” Akechi damn near shouted, guilt pulling at him when the thief visibly flinched. Taking his tone down a bit, he went on. “I would argue it’s important to you. That's what matters.”

It felt strange, lecturing Kurusu about this when Akechi was extremely guilty of that mindset as well. Being recluse, hiding your emotions and never showing the world it got to you. Keeping the mask cemented firmly in place at all hours of the day. Never once being honest; Akechi was the absolute  _ master _ of slapping on a persona and pretending everything was fine.

Definitely a ‘ _ do as I say, not as I do _ ’ topic if there was one, then.

Kurusu was quiet for a while, worrying his lip between his teeth before finally moving his arm from his face to stare at Akechi. His eyes were brimming with skepticism and so, so tired. “Why do you even care?”

_ ‘Because I think I've fallen for you and your stupid smile and bad jokes.’ _

_ ‘Because I live for your joy, live for being near you.’ _

_ ‘Because you remind me of a home I never had, bring me security and safety in a way I never could have dreamed.’ _

  
  
  


_ ‘Because I love you.’ _

  
  
  


Akechi’s heart froze solid at the thought. Until now, he’d obstinately avoided putting a name to the way his heart soared when he was with Kurusu, the way he felt warm and  _ happy _ when he was near. Ignoring the way Kurusu had quickly become the one light in is dim, dim life. It was dangerous, tagging a feeling this devastating. Giving it a name, giving it thought, only brought reminders of how he little he deserved it. Someone like him should never know love,  _ would _ never know love. With so much blood in the ledger, it should be impossible to fill it with anything else. When leather clad hands drip with as much red as his, they should never hold someone close.

And yet… “Because I care about you, Akira.” His voice was barely there, quiet and hesitant. He didn't deserve to voice it, but there it was, out in the open.

Kurusu just looked confused; wide grey eyes met his own as the thief slowly sat back up. Close—too close, Kurusu’s face was only inches away, searching for any hint dishonesty from Akechi. Then, finally, “...you're serious?”

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Akechi’s part to imagine there was a hopeful strain to Kurusu’s voice. “Yes, I am.” Here he was, given an out, given the opportunity to play it off as (an admittedly cruel) joke, yet the detective simply stuck to his guns. “I understand if this is poor timing. The last thing I'd want you to think is that I'm taking advantage of you.”

A small, breathless chuckle escaped Kurusu, and an even smaller smile ghosted his face. “And here I was, thinking I'd have a hopeless crush forever.”

Akechi blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”

For the first time that night, Kurusu’s eyes were once again full of that confidence and mischief that Akechi had fallen so hard for. The tiny smile grew, spreading across salty and splotchy skin. It was a little shy, a little uncertain, but unreservedly happy. “I care about you as well,  _ Goro,”  _ Kurusu punctuated his first name with a nudge at his shoulder. “It actually was kind of terrifying how fast I fell for you, if I’m going to be honest.”

This wasn’t where Akechi had expected this conversation to go in the slightest. The cynical part of his mind worried (and was likely right) that Kurusu was using this topic to deflect yet again. He’d had the sneaking suspicion the thief still wasn’t telling him something, but now was decidedly not the time to bring it up. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and tilted his head to stare at the cross-beams on the ceiling and watch the dust float by. “I can relate to that,” he said after a moment of consideration. Kurusu won this battle, it would seem. Though, that begged the question, “What does this make us?”

Akechi was certain Kurusu caught the note of uneasiness in his voice even though he’d attempted to mask it with the pleasant tone he constantly brandished. He always was far, far too perceptive. “Well, that depends,” Kurusu hummed thoughtfully before hopping lithely to his feet. Akechi shifted his eyes back down from the ceiling, from his blank, evasive staring to meet Kurusu’s. The bashful, hopeful glint in his eyes was terribly charming. “I  _ would  _ like to take you out on a date sometime. Just the two of us.”

“I’d like that as well.” With a small, genuine smile he’d only ever let Kurusu—let  _ Akira _ —see, Akechi took a deep, steadying breath. “Dinner this week, my treat?”

“It’s a date.” The teasing lilt in Akira's voice couldn't mask the blinding, overjoyed smile on his face. Though, there was still a glint of  _ something  _ in the thief’s eyes that had Akechi’s stomach churning nervously. He couldn’t really linger on that thought however, as Akira had already made his way back to the stairs. Tossing a glance back over his shoulder, he twirled his bangs around his finger distantly with a sheepish smile. “I take it you were here for coffee before... _ that _ . The usual, then?”

Akechi smiled pleasantly, nodding. “If you don't mind, that is.”

“Of course I don't, Goro.” That was going to take some getting used to. “I was just about to make myself a cup, anyways.”

“As long as it's not a bother,” Akechi offered a polite smile before Akira shook his head finally descended the stairs.

While it wasn't the first time Akechi had been in the attic by a long shot, it  _ was  _ the first time Akira hadn't been by his side. It felt oddly intimate; Akira clearly trusted him with the locational epicenter of his existence. Akechi wasn't entirely sure what he’d done to deserve  _ any _ trust from Akira, but he wasn't going to turn his nose up at it.

Odd then that he'd almost  _ immediately  _ betray it.

There had been absolutely no ill will on his part at all; Akechi had every intention of sitting and waiting for Akira's return. No snooping, no rooting around for information. Just waiting. And yet, the chiptune ding from the thief’s phone on the bed next to him caught his attention and drew him away from simply just  _ waiting _ . The detective's curiosity often bested his sense of propriety. 

He shouldn't look. There was no way Akira left his phone intentionally. Respecting his privacy was easily the best course of action.

But… Akechi chewed his lip. Akira was a reclusive enigma, refusing to compromise his pride to let slip any sort of straight answers. In all honesty, Akechi likely would never have another opportunity to so quickly learn what was going through the thief’s head.

It didn't ease the mounting guilt he felt as he picked up the phone, though.

Akechi wasn't surprised that Akira's phone was locked; considering the amount of borderline-illegal things Akira was inextricably entwined with, the detective would have been  _ far _ more concerned if it  _ wasn't _ . What did surprise him, however, was Akira’s lock screen.

 

(It had been a rainy day, exceptionally so. Akechi was all but stranded at Leblanc, watching ruefully as it relentlessly battered the windows. He’d been on his third, maybe fourth, cup of his usual Kona blend and chipped away at as much work as he could outside the office. Since it had been  _ painfully  _ clear he wasn't making it back any time soon.

He had almost been surprised when he heard the store bell ring; even though  _ he _ was enough of a fool to brave endless downpours for caffeine, he hadn't expected that to be true for anyone else.

Akechi had  _ truly _ been surprised when Akira stood in the doorway, drenched to the bone with a look of a cat that had been tossed in the bath. Drops of water steadily dripped from...well,  _ everywhere _ and pooled on the floor beneath him as he shivered, mouth pulled into a thin, blue line.

Sojiro had scolded him half-heartedly, unable to keep the genuine concern from his voice as Akira trembled in the entranceway.

Perhaps it was because the thief looked so pitiful that Akechi had offered to help him out. Perhaps it was before he had come to genuinely care for Akira and he was simply putting on airs for the long con of a century.

Regardless of the reason, Akechi had found himself towel-drying Akira's hair in the attic. They had spent time prying his soaked, sticky clothes from him—or, as many as Akira had been willing to part with, which was everything but his binder and briefs. Akechi had stressed a soaked binder likely wasn't healthy to keep on and had urged Akira to change into a loose shirt, only to receive a sharp glare in response. He hadn't brought it up again.

Finally, Akira had some color return to his skin and was able to more consistently make conversation. They’d stayed like that for some time, just pleasantly chatting as rain thundered against the attic windows until Akira had levelled him with a surprisingly serious stare for the lighthearted banter they had been indulging in before.

“I want a picture,” he had said. Akechi would admit, he had been confused.

“Of?”

“The two of us,” Akira clarified succinctly, without further explanation. As if that made any more sense.

“... why?” It likely would have been faster to simply humor him, suck it up, and smile for the picture. Yet, as always his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

For a moment, Akira was silent. Akechi had wondered briefly if it had just been an errant request with no rhyme or reason until Akira continued. “I want to remember my time with you. Want something to prove it existed."

Akechi remembers being stunned into silence for a solid few minutes. Finally, quietly, he agreed, trying desperately to ignore the flare of warmth he felt as Akira beamed into the camera next to him. Trying to fight his own smile as Akira pulled him close at the waist and hand lingered at his hip.

Then, out of nowhere, the thief had turned his face at the last second to peck Akechi’s cheek. The picture reflected the slip in his mask as shock colored his face. He had urged Akira to delete the picture—the tabloids getting their grubby mitts on it notwithstanding, the anxious buzzing he felt under his skin at a documented instance of his persona  _ slipping _ had him nearly begging the thief to get rid of it.

Akira had laughed it off and made a show of removing the picture. Akechi’s anxiety eased some, but not completely. This thief all too often was able to coax jarring honesty from him, and it was starting to make itself known to him in the form of endless worry. No one saw the real him, not ever. Yet this thief just kept stealing his mask and inviting the real Akechi to dance.)

 

His own shocked expression stared back at him as a slightly damp Akira planted a tiny kiss on his cheek. The first thought was of precisely  _ how _ the picture survived; Akira had a flair for the dramatics and had made quite the theatrical event of deleting it. (Later he realized cloud saves were a thing. He should have made certain it was pulled from the roots.)

The second thought was more of a…  _ feeling _ . Delight simmered in his chest and his heart swelled; Akira cared enough to have a picture of the two of them with him always.

A truly terrifying thought. Akechi didn't deserve someone who wanted to be around him so wholeheartedly. To have someone like  _ Akira, _ not necessarily a paragon but still easily the _ best _ person Akechi had ever met, care  _ this much _ was almost painful.

Blinking back tears, Akechi let his eyes drift down to the notification that had started this in the first place.

 

**mom. [22:01] : You can't keep ignoring me, Akira. Just because I'm not there does not mean you can parade around as something you're not.**

 

A strange dread wormed into his heart as he tapped the notification, only to be prompted for a password. Akechi swore. There’s no way he’d know—

Wait.

With hands that shook, he slowly typed it in, nearly dropping the phone entirely when it unlocked. That sentimental bastard had really made ‘ _ goro _ ’ his password. Shaking his head, he shoved the bliss brewing in him aside and returned to the task at hand. Now he  _ had _ to learn more about this idiot, if only to even the playing field a bit.

At the very least, Akechi discovered the root cause to Akira's outburst earlier. Though, it didn't take long for him to be hit with the realization he was very much treading waters he  _ should not be in. _ As he scrolled further and further in the one-sided conversation he felt disgust boil in his stomach and the sting of bile in the back of his throat. It was no wonder that Akira used so few words when so many were used to hurt him—by what was supposed to be  _ family _ , no less.

“What are you doing?”

Akechi shifted his eyes from the phone to Akira, trying very hard not to look like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. If he wasn't so absolutely consumed with revulsion at what he was reading, he’d have spared thought enough to notice Akira didn't look angry. Just resigned, and so, so tired. “Why didn't you say anything about this?”

Akira didn't respond right away, simply made his way to sit beside Akechi once more and handing him the mug of Kona. A bone-tired exhaustion settled onto Akira’s face as he kept his eyes trained on the his own steaming coffee clenched with white-knuckled intensity. It was the weariness of someone  _ almost _ done fighting, just about ready to raise the white flag. The defeated passivity didn't suit the embodiment of rebellion himself. “It's hard to talk about. Most days I don't let it get to me.”

“...but a lot of little things piled up.” Akechi murmured, sipping inattentively at his coffee.

“Yeah.” With a reluctant admittance, Akira followed his lead and took a swig of his own drink before continuing. “I was already feeling shitty about it because of that thing with Sojiro, so seeing that on top of it was… too much.”

The cinnamon Kona didn't drown out the disgust leaving an awful taste in his mouth, but Akechi decided to shift his focus. “I don't think Sojiro was angry with you. It's likely a case of aggregate annoyances, like you.” He hummed thoughtfully around a mouthful of coffee, swallowing and adding: “Though, if you ever need help again, I am always a call away.”

The grateful look on Akira's face warmed his heart. “I appreciate it.”

And that was how they stayed for a while, beside each other and sipping at coffee in silence neither felt compelled to break. It was just… comfortable. Akira’s presence soothed Akechi in a way he never found words enough to explain, moreso now that his expression had finally truly softened into something more peaceful.

He hadn’t realized he was staring until Akira’s eyes met his with a sly grin. “See something you like?”

Seems the flirty quips had returned full force, then. “Perhaps,” Akechi sniffed, tearing his eyes from the thief to maintain some semblance of nonchalance. A snort by his side detailed that particular failure. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.” Akechi could almost  _ hear _ the wink in Akira’s voice.

The detective made a show of looking thoughtful, even going so far as to tap a gloved finger at his chin. “Jury’s still out on that one.”

When a curly mess of a head dropped onto his shoulder, Akechi jumped, watching the coffee in his mug slosh dangerously close to the edge. He spared a glance enough to see Akira’s eyes close and a small smile flit across his face. “There’s still time to plead guilty.” Despite the now empty mug of coffee Akira was gripping lazily, ( _ when on earth did he chug that? _ ) sleepiness seeped into his voice. Then, with a yawn: “Hope you’re guilty, detective.”

Of the many things Akechi was guilty of, that was the only accusation he wore proudly.

* * *

Akira’s breathing had evened out, and Akechi had long since tugged the slipping coffee mug from his hands and set it on the floor. He hadn’t moved beyond that, just let the thief snooze softly on his shoulder with a small smile every time he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.

“Guilty, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> why did i write this and not the next chapter of sun who k n o w s zoinks scoob
> 
> you can pry trans akira from my cold dead h a n d s
> 
> this is a h o t m e s s but what else is new


End file.
